


This Can't Be Living

by alsointogiraffe



Category: Bandom, Criminal Minds
Genre: Angst, Gunshot Wounds, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-02
Updated: 2012-11-02
Packaged: 2017-11-17 14:00:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/552316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alsointogiraffe/pseuds/alsointogiraffe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Things change. Certain things happen and triggers are pulled and everything crumbles at some point.</i> A bandom/Criminal Minds crossover.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Can't Be Living

**Author's Note:**

> Sparking from a 30 minute "almost-free write" with [laheysmash](http://archiveofourown.org/users/laheysmash) to get our gears cranking and some fic written. (I should know by now that these sorts of things always get out of hand.) The prompt is "bullet wound", for h/c bingo.

Brendon doesn’t believe in patterns, and he doesn’t believe that things can be planned, or executed in a careful way, and nothing ever, _ever_ goes completely right. The world doesn’t work like that. It’s spontaneous. Things change. Certain things happen and triggers are pulled and everything crumbles at some point. Sometimes, things can be rebuilt, but a lot of the time, it’s too late.

Brendon relies on crumbling for his job. It’s how they catch bad guys.

Reid, he believes in everything that Brendon doesn’t, and that’s why they make the best pair. Brendon believes in spontaneity. Reid believes in patterns. He believes in order. A person’s behavior shouldn’t change, rarely changes, even when they try to change it. Reid believes in subtleties, and Brendon looks at the big picture. They catch each other’s blind spots.

You can’t miss things when you’re tracking down serial killers, and Brendon has learned this over the years, even though he hates admitting so. In his work field, having a blind spot can kill you, though they’re exactly what the team needs to find when they're searching for serial killers. You find their blind spots, you exploit them, and you wait for everything to crumble. It’s a simple process when it’s laid out into words on paper, and explanations in an office, and thinking it over during long flights to new cities.

It's harder, a lot harder, when you've got a gun in your hand, and you're clutching it hard and your hands are trembling. Sometimes it can take seconds to screw everything up. For everything to crumble. Your hand shakes a little too much, you aim too low, take one step in the wrong direction. You hesitate.

Brendon hesitated.

: :

The big picture is that Brendon got shot. He realizes this when he wakes up and decides to open his eyes and take in his surroundings, the _white_ of it all. The ceiling, the sheets, the walls. White might be Brendon's least favorite color because white means hospitals and flashbacks and bad memories. White means that he screwed up.

He turns his head to the left, aware of, but trying to ignore the dull pain pulsing in his right shoulder. His vision is blurry and details are vague. Reid is definitely next to him, lanky but sitting rim-rod straight. Someone else is next to him, a little harder to make out. They're both fuzzy figures in dark clothes that contrast against the white in a way that makes Brendon feel a little relief.

Thinking more, though, about what actually happened, _whenever_ all of that happened, he's hit by a pounding sense of guilt. He coughs once, and then twice, and looks at Reid and whoever is with him, and says, "He got away."

He hears a laugh coming from Not Reid that sounds like the kind that could be paired with an eye roll, something Morgan would do. Brendon thinks about rolling his eyes himself (since when do they _laugh_ about a serial killer getting away?), but opening them alone was accomplishment enough for probably the entire day.

“‘s not funny,” Brendon manages, and turns his head back to the ceiling, and closes his eyes again.

: :

He definitely fell asleep. He wakes up again, and the ceiling is still white and so are the blankets and the walls and he turns his head, feeling the same dull pain in his shoulder. He blinks several times and, this time, his vision cooperates more and focuses better on the two people next to him. Reid is still there, reading some thick book, and the person next to him isn’t the same person as before. Brendon blinks again and it’s Hotch.

Brendon tries again, determined, to admit that he screwed up, and repeats, “He got away.”

“Yeah,” Hotch says. He’s staring at Brendon, who looks over toward Reid. He sets his book down on his lap and looks up right away. “We’ve already found another lead. The team is working on it now.”

Reid probably should be there, Brendon thinks, helping the team, and so should Hotch. For a moment, his mind wanders away from the fact that their unsub got away, and he says, “Go help them.”

Hotch says, “They’re doing fine on their own right now. How do you feel?” Brendon can feel their eyes scanning him over, even though he’s decided to stop looking at them. He wonders to himself how long it’s going to take for Hotchner to get mad, and when Reid is going to say something. His mind sort of wanders for a minute, looking at a small water stain on the ceiling, and then a spot on the wall where the paint is peeling off, and then he realizes he was asked a question. He looks back over at the two of them.

“My shoulder hurts,” he says, like it were some sort of discovery.

Reid says, like Brendon didn’t already know, “You were shot.”

Brendon says, “Oh,” because that’s all he can manage.

A moment, and then a few minutes pass in silence. Reid and Hotch have a discussion with their eyes, one that Brendon can’t concentrate on, despite his best efforts. He eventually closes his eyes, but he doesn’t go to sleep again. Probably ten minutes later, Hotch whispers, “Is he asleep, do you think?” to Reid. Brendon doesn’t hear a response, so he shakes his head.

After another moment, a phone starts to ring, shrill and sharp, the sound vibrating throughout the room and making Brendon want to cover his ears after all the silence. Hotch mumbles something to himself, or maybe to Reid, and Brendon can hear him walk out of the room.

Brendon opens his eyes again -- he feels like it’s becoming a little harder every time -- and Reid is still looking at him. Brendon tries a third time to get the reaction he’s been looking for and says, “He got away.”

Reid says, “I know,” and then, “But I’m more relieved that you didn’t die.”

“Oh,” Brendon says. “Yeah.” He thinks for a moment and says, “Someone else might die though. Because of me.”

Reid says quietly, “It wasn’t your fault.” His voice is measured and his words are chosen carefully. He’s talking to Brendon the way he speaks with unsubs, treading carefully around him and Brendon wants to get mad. Before he can, Reid continues, “The unsub was armed and dangerous, and you did what you had to do. And you’re okay, even--”

“--if there’s a hole in my shoulder and our unsub got away.”

“If you beat yourself up over this...,” Reid says, but lets the sentence trail off.

Brendon picks it up for him, finishing, “At least someone will be.”

Reid doesn’t say anything else and Brendon pretends to fall asleep until he hears Reid’s footsteps drag almost silently out of the room.

: :

The big picture is that Brendon got shot. The smaller picture is worse, with ugly details like white gauze and sympathetic stares and lots of time off work. The smaller picture involves nightmares, guilt, and frequent check-ins with his team, ones where, no, they still haven’t caught their killer. It involves lousy talk shows all day and a pain in his shoulder that never seems to subside.

Sometimes people from his team visit him, which is nice, he figures, albeit a reminder that he still can’t work. Despite their conversations, which are always pleasant and rarely work-related, Brendon always wonders at the back of his head how their case is progressing, if they work better without him, if they found a replacement that hesitates a little less. He feels fidgety a lot.

One day he begs Hotchner to allot him some time to do paperwork, a few hours a week, just as something to get him out of the house and help him feel productive. Hotchner tells him no, says that he doesn’t want to see Brendon’s face at Quantico until he’s completely healed. He appreciates the offer, but he needs his team at 110 percent, and Brendon knows he’s probably 55, at best.

: :

Reid visits Brendon a few days a week, rarely inquiring about how Brendon is (which the others do constantly--it’s annoying when his answer is always a consistent, “Fine.”). Sometimes Reid will try to help Brendon clean up, picking things up off of the floor and organizing, spotting the little things out of order with the house that Brendon probably would never notice.

Gradually, he talks more about work, because he seems to sense that’s what Brendon wants to hear about. When they’re not focusing on cleaning or work, Brendon will talk about his day, the shows he saw on TV, and they’ll joke around. Reid will tell him to stop watching garbarge, and Brendon will refuse, citing soap operas as inspiration. Sometimes they won’t say anything, and they’ll watch old movies on the couch, Brendon’s good shoulder pressed close against Reid’s. Brendon pays close attention to the way Reid’s muscles gradually become less tense, the way he slowly starts to accept more of Brendon’s body weight as they grow increasingly tired.

Twice, Reid ends up staying the night. The first time, he leaves to work before Brendon wakes up. The second time, Brendon is up first, making them a breakfast that consists of warm poptarts and orange juice from a carton that is labeled as just barely safe to drink from. Brendon insists it’s because of his shoulder that he couldn’t make a five-star breakfast, but they both know better than to believe that. Neither of them can cook, and neither of them complain about breakfast.

Brendon tries to get Reid to stay, almost begs, but knows better than to interfere with work and finally lets him go on his way.

: :

Brendon eventually starts to get better. His shoulder hurts less and the wound stops looking so repugnant and a scar soon takes its place. Brendon convinces Hotch that he can come to work again, which leads to a conversation in his office that makes Brendon worry about the status of his job.

Hotch’s tone is sharp and his eyebrows are furrowed and _he got away_ , Brendon thinks to himself. That’s what this is going to be about.

He’s wrong. Hotch doesn’t mention the night once, except in making sure that Brendon is certain he can return to work. It’s precautionary, when 110 percent is what he needs, and hesitation is the enemy as much as the unsubs they chase after are.

Brendon’s leg bounces up and down under the table, and his hand trembles when he shakes Hotch’s hand gratefully, upon realizing that his job is intact and he gets to start working again _today_.

He leaves the office and returns to his team and tries to pretend that everything is normal, because that’s what he wants, more than anything else.

: :

It’s a little shaky, getting back into the groove of working, but Brendon manages. He goes to physical therapy as directed and takes all the necessary precautions because he doesn’t want to lose his job over carelessness. Funnily, he misses people visiting him at his house, getting what he imagines to be a taste of _true_ normalcy -- actually seeing his house, sleeping regular hours, all of that. _Workworkwork_ has become more of a challenge. He loses focus, gets distracted, and it’s nervewracking and makes him work twice as hard to pay attention, because this is what he needs.

Reid asks him now and again if he’s okay. Brendon lies, says, “Just fine,” and, “Thank you,” and, “Yourself?” and tries to ignore the way Reid looks at him with concern, like he’s filing away Brendon’s reaction in his mind, saving it to analyze when the time is more appropriate.

Fortunately for Brendon, appropriate times rarely occur, because when they’re not discussing a new death, they’re interviewing families, or looking at crime scenes, and taking notes and discussing more and there is little time to worry about anything that isn’t related to the case.

On a long plane ride back to Quantico following an unsuccessful lead, everyone is asleep but Reid and Brendon, and Reid seems to exploit this with ease. He’s sitting across from Brendon on the jet. His leg, from under the table between the two of them, taps Brendon’s foot once, and then twice, and Brendon decides to look up from the magazine he’s reading. He shuts it and places it on the table and looks at Reid curiously.

Reid says, “I think we’re getting closer to him. He knows we are. He’s getting nervous, sloppier.” Brendon nods in agreement, because sloppiness is the best they can ever hope for, because that’s when their unsubs start to mess up. Reid asks, “How’s the shoulder?” when he sees Brendon glance at it in what he thought was a subtle manner. Reid sees everything, Brendon thinks sometimes. He might be superhuman.

“A lot better. I think I almost did something to it when I kicked that door down back there, but I lucked out, I guess.” Brendon doesn’t actually believe in luck, and neither does Reid, but the words stumble out of his mouth easily enough that he doesn’t bother taking them back.

Reid purses his lips, and Brendon knows he’s probably contemplating, thinking that Brendon should have waited for Morgan to get there to kick the door down. He wasn’t too far away and has more muscle than Brendon and Reid combined (and his shoulder is, you know, completely fine). Brendon didn’t want to hesitate, though, didn’t want the ten seconds it took to wait on Morgan to be ten seconds too many.

In the end, the lead was false. The room was empty, and there was no unsub to be found, and they returned to the town’s local police station only to pack their things up and return to Quantico in order to find something more solid. Brendon thinks they tried their best, but he’s sure there are at least three members of their team on the plane that would insist that they could’ve done better.

Brendon reminds himself that living in the past does nothing. Reid says, “Well, I’m glad you’re okay,” and Brendon looks back up from his shoes, remembering that they were having a conversation.

Afterward, Brendon tries to keep the mood light, talking about meaningless topics like pop culture until he can’t come up with any more words to say. He’s showing Reid obscure pages of his magazine, talking about random people and unimportant headlines that are probably false and Reid rolls his eyes a lot, in a fond kind of way, with a laugh that matches. Eventually, both their eyes start to droop, and Brendon doesn’t bother asking for permission before slipping around to the other side of the table, next to Reid. He’d missed feeling a body next to his, something warm and familiar and solid. Reid is wearing a white button-up shirt but it’s dark on the airplane so it makes little difference to Brendon. He buries his head into Reid’s shoulder and closes his eyes and falls asleep easily.

: : 

Brendon stumbles into work two days later, groggy, having slept little the night before. He carries in his hands two cups of coffee, both spiked with spoonfuls upon spoonfuls of sugar, to the point where Brendon genuinely lost track of how many he’d put in. Better that way, he thinks, and when he hands one cup to Reid, who takes a long sip and smiles contentedly, he’s confident he made the right choice. 

He wants the case to be over, he thinks to himself, walking to the conference room and sitting down and taking another long sip of coffee. He doesn’t want another body to have to show up for that to happen. He also knows statistics, because Reid talks about them all the time, listing them off without hesitation. Statistically, it will never happen. Brendon buries his head in his hands and closes his eyes until he hears the conference room’s door open. Everyone else from the team files in, Reid sitting next to Brendon and watching him lift his head up slowly, shake his head a few times, and blink, trying his hardest to both look and feel more awake.

“Long night?” Reid asks, still watching Brendon, who nods in response, thinking about the night before, and the little sleep he got. It was another nightmare, but he doesn’t like to admit so any more than he has to. Reid pats Brendon’s good shoulder once or twice, like he just kind of _gets_ it, and of _course_ he does, Brendon thinks. He always does. 

Brendon’s not sure whether or not to be grateful for that, is all. 

: :

One night, after a long day at work, with a lot of paperwork and a lot of frustration because there’s another body with just as few details regarding it, Reid stops by Brendon’s place. Brendon’s shoulder is fine and he can bend over to clean up and there’s no reason for Reid to be over, but still, he doesn’t question it. He just pulls the door open and lets Reid in. Reid takes off his shoes off and slides them next to the door carefully, even though he knows Brendon couldn’t care less about that kind of thing. He shuffles inside and finally, he says, “It was kind of, uh, boring back at my place. I hope you don’t mind the company.”

Brendon wonders to himself how boring it actually was, because Reid seems like the kind of person who could entertain himself doing anything, like organizing his sock drawer, or cleaning under his stove. Brendon doesn’t press it, settling instead on asking, “Do I ever?” Because he knows the answer is a safe _no_ \--he doesn’t. 

Reid smiles and follows Brendon back toward the living room, where the TV is on, like always, lighting up the dim room. Brendon will never admit it, but he often prefers to sleep in the living room because he doesn’t like how silent his bedroom is. He likes the voices from the TV to be on, low in the background, reminding him that he isn’t completely alone. He wonders if he’s weird for it. When he sees Reid stare at the pile of blankets on his couch with a vaguely questioning look, he decides he probably is. 

Still, Reid never says anything about it, so Brendon says for him, “It’s cozy, is all.” He starts weaving in his head a whole explanation for when Reid does decide to press it--his couch is softer than his bed and it helps his shoulder hurt less. He thinks about where his eyes will have to be looking to convince Reid it’s the truth, where his arms need to be positioned, the little details he always forgets that always triggers to him, along with the rest of the BAU team, usually, that something is off. 

Reid never questions it, and Brendon stops feeling so tense. He sort of leaps onto his mountain of blankets, patting down on the spot next to him, insisting, “You might end up bored here, too, but at least you’ll be cozy, right?” His voice is the tiniest bit strained and he feels awkward and fidgety for no reason. Reid sits down on the pile, looking surprised, like he didn’t expect it to sink down as much as it did. He looks probably as awkward as Brendon feels, which makes Brendon laugh. Reid laughs too, and afterward, they both appear more at ease. 

After they settle in, Brendon runs to the kitchen and makes popcorn, bringing back a bowl of it and two bottles of water. He says, “It’s always my shoulder! I _could_ have gone for the five-star dinner, but--you know.” Reid laughs and Brendon smiles and they sit down and eat.

Eventually, silence falls between the two of them, until Reid breaks it by asking, “Are you happy? You know, working with the BAU?”

Reid, despite working with the Behavioral Analysis Unit himself, knows very little about when the most appropriate times are to ask questions like that. It takes Brendon by surprise, and he sighs deeply, because there’s no way for him to reply when he doesn’t know himself. He thinks about it, weighs the pros and cons and takes his time to think and think, the way people are supposed to do in situations like this. Ultimately, the best he can come with a shrug and a muttered, “I’m not sure.”

Brendon thinks to himself that he should be certain, that his answer needs to be a definitive _yes_ , because if he were to ask the same question to anyone else on the team, that’s almost certainly the answer he would get. He wonders if it’s different because he was shot, because he was confident for a moment he was going to _die_ because of his job, but he remembers quickly that he isn’t the only person on his team that’s had to think that was going to happen.

As though he were reading Brendon’s mind ( _that’s_ why he works for the BAU, Brendon realizes), Reid says, quietly, “You’re allowed to say no.” He says so very carefully, and he’s staring at Brendon patiently, though there’s this look in his eyes that implies that he doesn’t need a verbal response to know the truth. Brendon practically wants to scream, given how torn he is.

He says, eventually, “I guess, like--I don’t know. I guess I could...see myself being happier, you know, doing something else?” He phrases it like a question, but the good thing about admitting it--the good thing about admitting it to _Reid_ \--is that he never presses the matter. He doesn’t get upset, the way Brendon knows Hotchner would if he heard what Brendon had just said. 

All Reid does is nod his head, kind of like he _knew_ it (Brendon is sure he did), and, after a moment, grabs another handful of popcorn and says, “Sometimes I think the same thing.”

They don’t touch the matter again after that. They just watch TV and keep conversation light until Reid decides it’s best he go home and get some sleep. Brendon walks him to his car, thanks him probably three times, and heads back inside, shutting the door, locking it, and double checking that it’s actually locked (his job makes him paranoid, he sometimes thinks). He lies back down on the couch and stares at the ceiling and thinks until his mind winds down and sleep follows.

: :

The big picture is that Brendon kills their unsub. The case ends, just like that. A young girl, whose life Brendon probably saves, gets to go home and see her family again, and Brendon can let out a sigh of relief.

The smaller picture involves a lot of adrenaline, the way Brendon’s hand shakes violently until the trigger is pulled and suddenly there’s a body on the floor in front of him and it takes him a moment to remember how it got there. It involves staggering away from the body, all remembrance of protocol slipping away from him. It involves deep breaths, a pounding heart, and flashbacks, bullets and then blood and then lots of white.

Reid is definitely there, too, picking up Brendon’s gun from off the ground (protocol, Brendon realizes, and feels stupid). While other team members and SWAT members and police and everybody else come pouring into the crime scene, Reid pulls Brendon out of it, carefully, and over to an ambulance.

Brendon thinks it’s funny that he’s there, since he’s not even the victim. He feels dizzy and lightheaded though, so he doesn’t argue. He let’s them poke and prod and ask stupid questions like, “How many fingers am I holding up?” and, “Are you injured?” He’s not injured, by any means. Just a little shell-shocked and he wants to go _home_ , but he doesn’t know how to go about getting the words out.

Once Brendon is cleared as healthy (or something like that--healthy _enough_ , Brendon figures, because he feels horrible), Reid helps him hop down from the back of the ambulance and before either of them can say or do anything else, Hotch is walking up to them, lips pressed tight and eyebrows narrowed at the two of them.

He shoots Reid a look that’s clearly asking, _Is Brendon okay?_ , and Reid nods once or twice. It’s clear in Hotch’s eyes that he’s upset--angry, probably--with what went down, because Brendon definitely got ahead of himself and he could’ve died, could’ve gotten somebody else killed, and he most likely broke a hundred different rules doing what he did.

Hotch does start to say, “Brendon, what you did back there was incredibly stupid,” but Brendon swallows the lump in his throat and takes a deep breath and cuts him off.

“I want to quit,” Brendon says, and then crosses his arms tightly, trying harder than he wishes were necessary to ignore the way his eyes are stinging and his vision is blurring and, jesus, he’s _crying_. He says, feeling like an idiot, “I want to quit and, I just--I’d like to head home.”

Hotch looks at Reid again, having another one of their silent conversations that Brendon still can’t see, because he’s too busy wiping furiously at his eyes to make anything out. He sniffles loudly, feeling worse and worse with every passing second, and finally, with a sigh, Hotchner says, “Reid, take Brendon back to his place.”

Reid obeys, and neither of them say a word on the entire trip back.

: :

Brendon is the youngest person working with the BAU, and it was a struggle managing his way in. He had always been a strong student, getting all the right grades and doing the right work and saying the right things, always with a smile on his face, since that’s how he was taught to behave. He made sure he was in shape before applying for the job, because he couldn’t picture anyone working for the FBI that wasn’t that way. The interview rolled by smoothly and after a million background checks, and whatever other snooping things the FBI had to do, Brendon found himself with a job.

He isn’t sure what he had expected, if he had wanted it to be an action movie, or like it always seemed on TV. He feels naïve, in retrospect, like he had to have thought that he would be able to be invincible, like he would never get hurt, in any way shape or form. During the application process, they told him it wasn’t going to be that way, probably more than once, but Brendon was young and eager--it was only five years ago, but sometimes that’s enough.

Hotch makes Brendon wait before sending in his resignation, makes him take a little time to piece himself together and make sure this is what he wants, because it’s not an action he can take back. Brendon knows this, he _knows_ , and he finds him sitting in Hotch’s office two weeks later, chewing on his bottom lip as his leg bounces rapidly. He feels like he’s a student again, sitting in the principal’s office over something wrong he did. 

He never gets yelled at by Hotchner over what happened that night, not any more than he did on the night itself. It’s all procedural--badge and gun, sign here, here, and there, you can’t tell anyone about items a, b, and c. Mum’s the word, and Brendon can handle that. He nods rapidly and is tenser than ever, and his voice cracks when he tells Hotch, “Thank you,” on his way out. They shake hands--Brendon’s is sweating and trembling and he’s just so, _so_ off, and before he can do anything else, Hotch pulls him into a hug that takes him by surprise. Brendon clings, just a little more than he maybe should, but Hotch doesn’t say anything, not even when an unexpected sob racks Brendon’s body, making him feel even more out of place, even more like a kid. FBI agents don’t cry, he thinks.

Abruptly, Brendon pulls away from the hug, crossing his arms tightly and thanking Hotch again and composing himself long enough to tell him that he’ll clear his workspace as soon as he can and say goodbye to everyone quickly and be out right away.

Hotch shakes his head, tells Brendon to take his time, that it won’t be any problem. Brendon sort of nods where he is and turns around and leaves the room. The door closes quietly behind him and he lets out another choked sob and feels grateful that the curtains to the office are pulled shut. 

He walks down a long narrow hallway, long enough until he knows he’s alone, with certainty, and he leans back against the wall and looks up at the ceiling and waits for several minutes until his breathing is even, until his eyes stop stinging and he thinks words will come to him with more ease than before. He takes a deep breath and walks forward, down a staircase, and into his workspace. Everyone is there--that wasn’t something Brendon doubted. Everyone is standing there, watching Brendon walk down the stairs, and there’s this tension in the room that signals to Brendon that they know what he’s here to announce.

He’s grateful to not have to explicitly state anything; that’s the last thing he needs. It’s a blur of hugs and he starts crying again, harder, but it doesn’t matter, because he’s not the only one. The hardest part about this easily is leaving the group of people he’s been working with, trusting his life with, for five years, having to say goodbye, knowing too well that he may never see any of them again. He tries not to think too hard about it. He stands up a little straighter, wipes his eyes, clears his throat, and makes it through the rest of his goodbyes by reminding himself that this is going to be for the better. 

Reid has never been a hugger, but he sacrifices his personal space for Brendon, giving him a tight one, clinging a little. Brendon buries his head in Reid’s chest, takes a deep breath, and mutters, “Be careful, okay?” He’s not sure if it’s audible, or understandable, but he stops thinking about it when Reid nods tersely. Brendon pulls away from the hug and lets the team be on its way. He clears his desk, item by item, not feeling as upset by it as he could. It was never very decorated. Most of the other desks have photos on them, cards, that kind of stuff. They tell stories. Brendon doesn’t have photos. His desk doesn’t tell stories. He hasn’t seen his family in years, owns no pets, has very few friends--nothing to photograph, nothing to share with others. Clearing his desk helps him clear his mind a little, though, and he looks at the empty surface at the end like it were a blank slate, a new beginning.

He takes a deep breath and feels a little more confident. A new beginning is what he needs.

: :

Life goes on, Brendon realizes, in a weird kind of way. He takes a week or so to himself before he starts to look for a new job. It feels like he’s living his life on autopilot, applying to places where he’s probably overqualified. He sleeps and he eats and he does what’s necessary to survive. That’s about it.

He still has nightmares, grinding ones that leave him shaken up, even when they’re repeats, recurring ones that should fade, that should wear out and grow old as he realizes that he’s okay. Nothing should be wrong, but his stomach keeps itself tied in knots like everything is. Over time, he begins to think that part of it is concern for his team--his ex-team, his _whatever_. The nightmares stop being about getting shot--those fade, for which Brendon is grateful, but they’re soon replaced by his friends dying and getting hurt, over and over, one by one, and it doesn’t stop like he anticipated. 

He realizes sooner, rather than later (because hesitation is still the enemy, he reminds himself), that this might be a problem that he can’t handle on his own. This isn’t something he wants to experience forever. It’s tiring, extremely tedious, and it makes everything feel strained and depressing. Therapy was something always advocated by the BAU--encouraged because you need to be at your best, mentally _and_ physically, to do the kind of work they did there. Even now, Brendon accepts with enough ease that he’ll feel better this way, getting things off his chest and talking. More than anything else, he hopes the nightmares will subside. 

: :

It goes smoothly--or as smoothly as therapy can possibly go. Brendon is very hesitant at first about what he can and can’t say. He speaks vaguely about everything that happened, but soon he finds ways to tiptoe around the details he swore not to mention. He spends a lot of time reminiscing about funny moments, times when they bonded and joked and work wasn’t as hard as it had to be. He talks about how grateful he was to be with such a kind group of people, a group that always looked out for him. 

It’s not hard to realize how much he misses them, but it comes to him as a surprise when he realizes how little he talks about Reid. He’s not sure why he ignores him at first during their sessions--especially since most of his nightmares revolve around him, and they’d always made the best pair. He thinks, maybe, that it’s because it doesn’t feel right, going around and rambling about him, when he was always the most private of their team. With time, Brendon opens up a little more. Talking helps, and he grows desperate. The nightmares fade and he feels a little better, but there’s this lingering feeling, a gloomy one that doesn’t seem to go away, so he keeps talking, about Reid, too, with hopes that it will do the trick. 

He can’t say it does.

: :

Brendon finds a job with relative ease, and he’s thankful, given the economy. His experience doesn’t hurt, he thinks. It’s certainly a downgrade--an office job with monotonous work and little action. It could grow boring, Brendon thinks (he’s always been attracted to action), but for now, it will suffice. 

He continues going to therapy, clinging to the hope that it will alleviate him of his worries. 

One day, after work, he decides that maybe a pet would help, and within the next week, he’s found himself a dog. She’s just a little puppy, too cute for words. She’s strong and protective, but falls in love with Brendon almost as much as he falls in love with her. He names her Penny Lane, primarily after the Beatles song, but also because he knew that it would be shortened to Penny. For the first week with her, he constantly lifts her up, smothers her with kisses and repeats over and over, “Find a penny, pick it up, and all day long you’ll have good luck!” He can’t say he believes in luck, but it’s still fun to say, and Penny hasn’t hurt anything (besides his couch, and a few different blankets, but he meant emotionally, anyway).

It takes a lot of effort, but he manages to start constructing a new life, one that’s supposed to feel more normal. It’s weird how much he wanted normalcy before, how foreign the concept had sounded to him. He can’t say he misses working at the BAU, but he misses the idea of things constantly moving and changing. 

He realizes one day how bland and _white_ his house’s walls are, and decides to dedicate a weekend to painting his living room a soft yellow. The following weekend he paints his room a shade of green that reminds him of summer and grass and freshness and new beginnings. It was a much needed change.

Change is a good plan. It’s a plan that helps a lot, actually, and even though he has a mediocre job and few people in his life, he gets really good at ignoring the empty holes in it. He befriends his next-door neighbors, ones he barely knew he had. They’re the Weekes family, and they’re great--neither of them had known each other existed until Brendon’s schedule settled down and he received the chance to be a normal person, one who, like, mows his lawn and waves at his neighbors and makes smalltalk and volunteers to babysit (to _babysit_!) for two adorable children. 

Really, things settle down, and Brendon feels better, but the weird, vaguely depressed feeling in the back of his head never goes away. The occasional nightmare still pops up, but he no longer feels so despondent about it, which is good, though he would prefer having no nightmares at all.

: :

Things especially change one day late in August, while Brendon is driving home from therapy. It’s raining out, which Brendon usually likes, but it’s been rainy for several days in a row and has gone from being a special treat to tiring and bland. His wipers are running full speed, and it’s hard to see out of his window, so when he pulls into his driveway, he has to squint hard to realize that the figure standing in front of his door, soaking wet and shivering, is, of all people, Reid. 

He nearly crashes into his garage, not paying any attention anymore to what’s in front of him, focusing instead on the sight to his right. He manages, though, to stop the car and put on the break. He forgets to shut off his headlights at first, but remembers, and quickly reopens the door to get them. He shuts it again, and hits the lock button on his key twice until he hears a honk confirm that the car’s locked ( _so_ paranoid). He barely remembers that it’s pouring down rain, and his steps are slow and shaky as he makes his way up to where Reid is standing. 

They both look at each other for a minute, scanning each other, seeing what’s new. Brendon is waiting to see some ridiculous wound, a missing arm, or anything of that nature, but Reid just looks like _Reid_. His hair is now cut short, but it looks good on him, despite being soaking wet. He’s wearing a _cardigan_ \--Brendon doesn’t remember him ever wearing those. He’s shivering though, and finally, Brendon realizes this and quickly ushers him inside.

“Your door was locked,” Reid says, looking himself up and down and laughing awkwardly. “It was locked and you either weren’t home or were ignoring me and I figured--I’d wait ten minutes, I said.”

“Jesus, it looks like you’ve been out here for an hour.” Reid shrugs sheepishly, shoving his hands in his pockets. Brendon shakes his head and says, feeling ridiculous, “You should change.” Reid goes to object, but Brendon continues, “No, no, it’s no problem. I have something you can wear. Just--hang on.”

Brendon sprints back to his bedroom, and searches through his dressers for something appropriate to lend Reid. He scraps together enough clothes and heads back out to the hallway, handing the clothes over. He doesn’t have to tell Reid where the bathroom is--he still remembers, and obediently heads over there. He emerges probably five minutes later, already looking better, even if those clothes he’s wearing are a little disproportionate. Brendon apologizes, but Reid just waves it off.

They go to the living room and sit down and look at each other for another minute, before Reid asks, “Where were you?”

Suddenly, Brendon’s face turns red and he says, with a dry laugh, “Therapy.” 

Reid doesn’t laugh. He just nods seriously and says, “That’s good.” He asks a moment later, “Has it helped?”

“Yeah,” Brendon says, but he sounds unsure. He thinks about it and repeats, with more confidence, “Yeah--it really has.” He still feels uncomfortable and they sit in silence for another minute before he blurts out without thinking, “I missed you.”

Reid looks up at him quickly, frowning, studying Brendon’s face, the same way he always used to. He’s looking for every detail probably, like he doesn’t trust the statement, but after a moment his face softens and he looks down at his lap and says, with a sigh, “Things aren’t the same without you.” 

Brendon gets that, he does, and he feels bad for it. He wishes he could be there but not have to suffer, to feel so miserable from it, but even thinking about returning makes his stomach knot in the worst possible way. Instead of saying something consoling, he says, honestly, “I don’t regret leaving.” 

“I didn’t expect you to,” Reid replies, still staring at his lap, looking focused. Brendon stares at Reid, trying hard to study his face, too, but it doesn’t come as easily. Eventually, Reid looks up and says, “You painted.”

“Yeah,” Brendon says. “Here and my bedroom.” Reid nods approvingly and another moment drifts by in silence, like there are no words to say even after having gone such a long time without seeing each other. From one of the other rooms--his bedroom, maybe--the faint sound of paws padding across the floor can be heard and Brendon chooses now to say, “I adopted a puppy.”

“Wow,” Reid says, watching as Brendon calls her out to the living room and pick her up and hug her before setting her on Reid’s lap. Reid looks like he doesn’t know exactly what to do, and settles with giving her a pet or two as she wags eagerly, licks his hand, and eventually jumps down and curls up near their feet.

The silence, though it started off as awkward, settles and becomes a lot more comfortable, a lot more like the kind Brendon remembers from all the times Reid would come over while his shoulder was healing, and even afterward. 

He waits a minute first, then Brendon moves on the couch so that he’s a little closer to Reid, and decides to rest his head on his shoulder. The scene is all too familiar, and horribly comforting, and suddenly, Brendon wants to blurt out everything about the past month, the things he’s been keeping to himself, the things he can talk to Reid about but not his therapist, or his puppy, or anybody else, really. He wants to talk about his nightmares, and how utterly _relieved_ he is to see Reid in his house again, the way it suddenly feels like he can rest for once, genuinely, without having to deal with the troubling thoughts that have been hanging in the back of his mind for too long now. Instead, he asks Reid if he can stay the night, to which he replies, “Of course,” like it was a dumb question. 

Brendon figures he has time, then, to let all of his questions and concerns build up. He’s tired, so for now, he leans into Reid a little more, closes his eyes, and says, “Good.” He feels like the rest of his worries can drift away, at least for a bit, while Reid is next to him. It feels like he can finally take a deep breath and close his eyes and sleep easy, so that’s exactly what he does.


End file.
